


Ruins

by JadeSabre83



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Non-Graphic Torture, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Empire of the Hand AU, Standard Imperial Treatment of Prisoners, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeSabre83/pseuds/JadeSabre83
Summary: “I tried to defect, after Alderaan.” There’s no need to explain that; in addition to Basic she also knows he has an education in human politics and history. “I was rewarded for my efforts by being sent to an Imperial Re-Education Center for a year. Based on what you know of the Empire, I’ll let you imagine what their definition of ‘Re-Education’ meant.”The Empire has many types of prisons at its disposal; for someone like Doctor Jazzlynn Vance, prized hyperspace theorist (and attempted defector), someone the Empire cannot afford to lose but also cannot let go unpunished, there are the “re-education centers”.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Ruins

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel/flashback for [This is Me Trying (I Just Wanted You to Know)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054089)

Just as the Empire has many ships at its disposal, it, too, has many prisons at its disposal. Not just many prisons in numbers, but many prisons in _type;_ there are prisons where you send people to forget. Prisons where you send people to labor and suffer for their crimes. Prisons that exist solely to temporarily hold people before they’re executed. And for someone like Doctor Jazzlynn Vance, prized hyperspace theorist (and attempted defector), someone the Empire cannot afford to lose but also cannot let go unpunished, there are the “ _r_ _e-education centers_ ”. Some say these places, innocuous looking buildings scattered across the Core Worlds, are a fate worse than even the harshest labor camp, for those who enter the re-education centers never leave quite the same as when they first entered.

~~~

Jazzy wakes up in a cell just big enough to hold a bed and a toilet and nothing else. There’s no window, no light, no sink, not even a pillow or blanket on the pitiful excuse of a mattress. Just her, the darkness, and her thoughts.

And her dread.

And a sense of panic so visceral that she can hear her heart beating in her head like a tattoo, feel her stomach twisting into a never ending series of knots. She can’t stop shaking, or crying, and she once again wipes away the tears with the sleeve of the stiff grey jumpsuit.

The guards had laughed as they strip-searched her, their hands rough and violating as hot tears streamed down her face. When she’d immediately refused to put on the new clothes they hit her with a stunbaton so hard that they had to help her get dressed. Then they dragged her down the hall and dumped her here, in this cell.

In the dark.

When the door finally opens—minutes, hours, days later, she can’t be sure—there’s no way to tell if what she feels is purely relief or dread (or both). Dread definitely wins out as her wrists are placed in stuncuffs and she’s taken out into the hall, her eyes immediately squinting shut at the too harsh light. Not that there’s much to see when they do adjust; just a sterile, white corridor with a series of unmarked doors. The stormtroopers stop at one of these doors, inserting a code cylinder, and when the door _whushes_ open she’s met by the sight of a rather unremarkable room. It’s the same sterile white as the corridor, the only distinguishable feature being the man sitting at the table, but he himself is rather unremarkable as well. Brown hair, blue eyes, mid-40s by her guess. The only thing of note is his uniform; white tunic, black pants—he’s ISB.

That growing sense of dread takes hold as she’s shoved into the empty chair, the stormtroopers then taking up position on either side of the now closed (and presumably locked) door.

The ISB agent smiles at her, all fake and saccharine sweet. “Name?”

Jazzy frowns. It can’t really be that simple, can it? She licks her lips before speaking. “Doctor Jazzlynn Vance.”

There’s a momentary pause, then Jazzy gets a firsthand lesson about the _stun_ in stuncuffs.

She’s not sure how long it lasts, just that she knows she’s somehow able to hold back any sort of scream (though she does let out a quiet, pitiful whimper when it finally stops).

The ISB agent simply stares at her, unfazed, and repeats the question. “Name?”

“Doctor Jazzlynn Vance.” No pause this time, just an immediate shock from the cuffs, though she at least knows what to expect and it doesn’t seem to last as long.

“Name?” He almost seems _bored_ when he repeats the question again.

Jazzy pauses this time, wondering what exactly it is that he’s wanting her to say. Then she pours as much pride into her voice as possible (when cuffed and terrified). “ _Doctor_ Jazzlynn Va—” The shock comes before she’s able to finish her name, and she’s certain that it’s much more intense. Or at least it certainly feels that way, and unlike the first two times she cries out, whimpering loudly when it stops, her body sagging forward.

The ISB agent sighs, and Jazzy feels one of the stormtroopers lifting her back up by her hair.

“You are a traitor to the Empire, and until you get that fact through that pretty little head of yours, you no longer have the right to a proper name or a title. Now, shall we try again, hmm?” His face is pinched as he smiles at her once more. “Name?”

“Doctor. Jazzlynn. Vance.”

“Very well.” He rises from the table, sparing her a single, distasteful glance. “Perhaps some time spent alone with these fine troopers will aid in today’s lesson.” With that he leaves, the door closing and locking behind him.

~~~

Several hours later Jazzy’s dumped back into her cell, her throat raw from screaming, every inch of her body crying out in pain, but despite that, she still clings onto one thing—

Her name is Doctor Jazzlynn Vance.

~~~

They don’t always use the stuncuffs as a part of her daily “lessons”. Or even the stunbatons.

Their methods vary in cruelty and severity; so long as they don’t actually kill her, anything goes...and there’s not much that a dip in a bacta tank can’t fix.

Sometimes it’s their fists.

Or vibroblades.

Or an IT-O droid.

Today it’s a simple, yet incredibly effective (and terrifying) method: water. There’s a small tub of it in the center of the room, and one of the stormtroopers holds Jazzy’s head just under the surface. With her hands cuffed behind her back there’s no way to resist. All she can do is hold her breath, feeling her lungs burn as her head thrashes about and the panic starts to set in as each time she wonders if this is the time that they don’t pull her out before she drowns. 

She’s not even aware of the fact that they _don’t_ until she’s waking up on her side on the ground, coughing up water. Through blurry eyes she’s able to make out the ISB agent (whom she’s come to call “The Bastard” in her head, and out loud more than a few times) giving one of the stormtroopers a serious verbal dressdown. Jazzy wonders (hopes) for a moment that maybe she’s lucked out and earned some respite here (what with obviously nearly drowning and all), but then The Bastard is dismissing the two troopers, and _oh kriff_.

Turns out that he is actually willing to get his hands dirty for once.

Literally.

He yanks her up by the hair with one hand, slapping her hard across the face with the other, splitting her lip in the process, and drags her back over to the water.

“Now. Where were we?”

Today’s lesson is _“Loyalty”_ , and Jazzy’s expected to profess her undying loyalty to the Empire.

Obviously, she hasn’t.

“Go to hell!” She spits at him, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction when she sees the splatter of bloodied-spittle landing on his once perfect white tunic.

This time she wakes up not on the floor, but in a bacta tank.

~~~

The first time Jazzy tries to escape, they beat her so hard that she spends the next two days in bed.

The second time Jazzy tries to escape, she winds up in bacta. 

The third time Jazzy tries to escape, they make her watch as they execute the guard that was on duty. And then they beat her. She spends three days in bacta that time, and another four days strapped to a bed while she finishes recovering. No pain meds, no sedatives. Just a tube in her stomach for nutrients, and another in her bladder so she doesn’t make a mess of herself.

Jazzy gives up on escaping after that.

She gives up on a lot of other things, too. Like speaking (unless it’s what they _want_ to hear). And glaring at the guards (what good does it do anyway?).

And hope.

~~~

“Doctor Jazzlynn Vance?”

Prisoner 49713, traitor to the Empire, sits at her assigned desk as she reads the latest (pre-screened) news on the Imperial HoloNet. A slight frown creases her forehead; there’s been an increase in insurgent attacks over the past few weeks.

“Doctor Vance?”

There’s that voice again, and closer. Prisoner 49713 frowns more fully this time before glancing up from the datapad. Two officers stand before her, an admiral and a commander, judging by the rank bars. They’re both looking at her rather expectantly, and that’s when the name finally connects.

_Doctor Vance is...me?_

She offers them a slight, if not entirely convincing nod.

“Your Empire needs you, Doctor Vance. Please come with us.”

~~~

Several hours and several datapads worth of forms later, she’s dressed in a freshly pressed Tarkin Initiative uniform and on a shuttle bound for the Endor System. Her eyes shift down to the briefing once again.

_Project: Death Star II._

_Role: Lead Project Manager, Hyperdrive modifications_

She is Doctor Jazzlynn Vance, prized hyperspace theorist, and her Empire needs her.

(She is prisoner 49713, and she is a traitor). 


End file.
